


The Games People Play

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Christmas, Games, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can always tell when it's Tuesday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Games People Play

**Author's Note:**

> Written December 2007 for sn_holidays on LiveJournal, from Neverbeen2spain's prompt _Gen or vague Dan/Casey - the boys (and others possibly too) play Scrabble. Hilarity ensues_. I make no promises as to hilarity, but there is, undeniably, Scrabble.

_R-E-X  
B-E-B-A_

_What?!_

*

  
You can always tell when it's Tuesday.

*

  
_E-U-O-I_

_Excuse me?_

_*shrug* Ah, whatever. It's not like I've got a single vowel here, so … thanks, I guess …_

*

  
Out in the newsroom, there's a game of trash-can basketball raging. Elliott, strangely, is a valued team member here. He isn't fast, and he's certainly not light on his feet, but there's no-one better at blocking. Or at tackling, as those who've faced him in company touch football games have cause, and bruises, to remember. Will, with his height and his long reach, ought to have the advantage, but plays (Jerome unwisely says) like a girl. Jerome then finds the game forgotten and himself bombarded with every conceivable missile that comes readily to hand, and takes refuge in the tape library until Natalie and her warrior army either lose interest or find another victim.

*

  
_S-U-D-O-R-O-U-S_

_You bastard. You just used every single letter, didn't you? And still I have no vowels._

*

  
Dana's sitting this game out. Natalie just spent a half-hour showing her how to paint herself French tips ("I can't believe that none of those fancy schools of yours taught you to do this!" A pause. "Come to think of it, you still can't get out of a car without –" "I can too!" Dana had protested, but it's true, sometimes, when she's in a hurry, she forgets to keep her knees together). It's not that Dana's afraid of breaking a nail – she keeps a pack of press-ons in her desk drawer in case of emergencies – but she doesn't want to hurt Natalie's feelings. She knows what happens to people who hurt Natalie's feelings.

She sees Jerome's head peeking cautiously around the doorframe, and callously waves him on in. The ball magically changes direction in mid-air, heading straight for Jerome's midriff, and he retreats again.

*

  
_D-H-O-B-I_

_Yes! Triple word score, thank you very much!_

*

  
Kim and Dave are taking no part in the game. Dave is sitting in a quiet corner, happily plugged into Mozart on his iPod and working through a book of Sudoku puzzles with concentrated ease. Kim, by way of contrast, is scanning holiday photos of herself, both in and out of a bikini, on to her computer, and then emailing them out to a fortunate few … dozen. Jeremy glances over her shoulder on his way to the men's room, and trips over his own feet. She smiles sweetly, and adds his address to the bottom of the list. Give the boy a thrill; why not?

*

  
_You know something? I haven't had a single 'S' all morning. What gives?_

*

  
Isaac is cloistered in the tranquillity of his own office, his bad leg hitched comfortably onto the footstool that Dan, eternally and cheerfully impartial to rites, rituals or religions, had given him for Christmas. He'd grumbled a little as he'd accepted it, hating, as ever, to be treated like a cripple or an invalid, but, "Shut up," Dan had told him, and he had. Then he'd tried it out, the pain in his hip had thinned and faded to almost-bearable, and he'd sighed in relief. He'd looked up to say a proper thank-you, but Danny was gone.

Isaac has the door closed, shutting out the racket that echoes down the corridor. Whatever they're doing out there, he doesn't want to know. He himself is engrossed in the book his Secret Santa – still, at this point in time, secret, which is a Christmas miracle in and of itself – had given him. It's a handbook on organic gardening, and Isaac is certain it was meant as a gag gift but, truthfully, it's turning out pretty interesting. He is, actually, although no-one else yet knows this, planning on cutting down his hours in the next few months. Now that the station and the show are in safe hands, he thinks maybe he can let go of the strings, just a little bit. Five years ago he'd promised Esther that he'd retire, and then gone back on his word. It's time to make that up to her. But a man needs a hobby, and Esther has always loved fresh roses.

He's not sure how she'll feel about organic fertiliser, though.

*

  
_A-D-I-T_

_A lousy nine points. Must … do … better._

*

  
Dan's reading too, lying upside-down on the couch in his own office. In his case, he's unabashedly engrossed in the latest instalment of a best-selling series of children's books which had actually been meant for Charlie ("These are books that _boys_ will read!" the Barnes &amp; Noble bookslave had assured Lisa, as though it were a miracle that a _boy_ could string two words together, and Lisa had believed her), but Charlie, although polite to his mother's face, thanking her as nicely for this as he had his grandma for the traditional ugly sweater, had shown far more enthusiasm for the stack of games modules Lisa had also bought him. They went with the Playstation that Casey had shelled out for, and, truthfully, Charlie didn't care about the games so much as the fact that the combination of gifts at least showed that his parents were _talking_ to one another, finally. Always a well-mannered boy, he'd made sure to glance at the book, riffling through the pages to show willing, but then he'd passed the thing on to Dan on the not-unjust grounds that Dan would read anything at all and, when there wasn't anything else to read, would read the product information off a cereal box. And, sure enough, here Dan is: reading.

*

  
_Q-I for 35. That's more like it!_

*

  
Although, unlike Isaac, not undisturbed. Casey's in the office with him, ensconced behind the desk, typing desultorily. Since there are no stories to work on at the present time, Dan assumes that he's either putting together some filler pieces to prevent future embarrassing on-air silences, or else, at long last, starting on the potential bestseller he's been threatening, more or less seriously, ever since Dan has known him and, from what Dana says, since college, and probably before. About time, if so, Dan thinks; damn thing's never going to get finished if he never starts it and, until it's started, Dan himself is a little wary of admitting to anyone that his own book has been completed for the past six months and is currently the subject of a minor bidding war … more of a skirmish, really, but still, people _want_ it. Whatever he's writing, it has Casey engrossed. He's working in silence but for the occasional exasperated sigh, and hasn't said a single word all morning except, once, somewhere (for Dan) around page 226, "Dictionary?"

Dan had looked up. "Magic word?"

Casey had rolled his eyes, reached out his hand, palm up, and flapped his fingers: _gimme!_ Dan shifted himself around until he could reach the space on the shelf where the dictionary ought to be. When his hand closed on emptiness, he shifted a little more to stretch out toward the patch of floor which was the dictionary's home-away-from-home, swept away three complimentary teeshirts (all XXL, for some reason, they would fit both him and Casey wearing them together), a pair of only-too-obviously well-used sweatsocks, a postcard from someone in Hawaii who nobody in the office has ever admitted to knowing, and about half a ream of abandoned script printout, found what he was looking for, tossed it toward the desk, and went back to his reading. After a moment, he'd heard Casey type in one word. One very short word.

_X-U. Yes!!_

If this is a novel, or an article – or anything, for that matter – it's going to take Casey about a year to finish it, at the rate he's typing. Dan tries not to let it get to him – he's coming up to the thrilling denouement, although, since it's a thrilling denouement that was intended for twelve-year-olds, he has a pretty good idea how things are going to go – but the audible hunt-and-peck is starting to jar on his nerves.

He blocks it out for another few pages, knowing that Casey won't thank him for his interference, but once the last burst of action's over and he's on to the final chapter which, he knows from experience, will be ten pages of the boy-hero's aged mentor spouting exposition for the sake of those unable to follow the plot, he surfaces and realises that now Casey isn't typing at all. In fact, if he thinks about it, Casey hasn't been typing for a good half-chapter now.

So he sets the book on the floor, glances up, and says, casually and not-at-all intrusively, "How's it going over there?"

Casey bolts upright like a nervous rabbit. Guilt could not be more clearly written all over his face if it were _actually_ written all over his face in big, red letters. "Fine!" he blurts, trying too-obviously to sound nonchalant. Dan isn't fooled.

"Want me to take a look?" Dan offers. He straightens up, rolls his neck and stretches, reminding himself that he's getting too old to twist himself into a pretzel shape unless it's for an exceedingly good cause.

"No!" Casey says, but he's too late; Dan's round the desk, and leaning over his shoulder. Then he stands back, head cocked, brow furrowed.

"Casey," he says, "I'll give you a hundred dollars, right here and now, out of my pocket, if you can tell me what a 'qi' is."

Casey reddens. "It's an official Scrabble word," he mumbles. "The computer uses it all the time."

"Uh-huh," Dan says, and leans forward again. "How about 'di'?" Casey shakes his head. "'Ko'? 'Xu'?"

"Monetary unit of Vietnam," Casey says promptly. "That one, I know. You got a hundred bucks?"

"Not about my person, no," Dan tells him calmly, "but I'm sure the ATM in the lobby can help out. Besides, that was for 'Qi', remember?" He casts another glance over the virtual board. "What happened to the 'no foreign words' rule?"

Casey shrugs. "I guess currency doesn't count."

"I guess a lot of things don't count," Dan mutters, peering closely at the screen. He holds out his hand and flaps his fingers. "Dictionary?" Casey hands it to him, and he flips to 'Q'. "Huh. Not here." He crosses the room, opens the door, and sticks his head out into the newsroom. "Anyone? Definition of 'Qi'? 'Q-I'?"

There's silence for a moment, then Dana sighs. "I told Charlie that getting his dad a Scrabble game would be trouble."

"He's playing the computer," Dan tells her. "Computer's winning. Anybody? 'Qi'?"

A hand goes up at the back of the room. Dan nods toward it. "Alyson?"

She stands up, apparently under the impression that the room's suddenly turned into kindergarten class. "It's an alternative spelling for _chi_, the Chinese life-force," she announces, and sits down again rather suddenly. The room is silent. Dan bows his head to her, impressed.

"Way to go, Alyson!" She's just won herself $100, but he'll settle up with her later on. Right at this moment he has Casey to torment. He withdraws back into his office, and turns to face Casey, who is now looking furtive as well as guilty. "You hear that?"

"Yes," Casey admits.

"Are we playing Chinese Scrabble, and I missed it?"

"Valid words!" Casey protests.

"Yeah," Dan says heavily. "Right." He perches on the desk, cranes his neck to look around at the screen again. "Feel like a new game?"

"Not if you're going to whine every time I use a word you don't know," Casey says. "Because that'll be a lot of times, my friend."

"Whine?!" Dan says, shocked. "I would have you know that we Rydells are _not_ whiners. We're known for it. Neither do we cheat at Scrabble."

"I wasn't –" Casey begins, but Dan sweeps on.

"Nor are we ever at a loss for words. At least, not when we are playing –" He pauses for effect. "_Dirty word Scrabble!_"

Casey's lips twitch, but he controls them. "Tried it before," he says, sadly. "I had an 'F' and a 'C', and a 'K' that would've gone on a triple-word score. The computer wouldn't have it."

"Huh!" Dan says. "Then we shall do without the computer, and play Scrabble as it was played by the men of yore: tiles and a gameboard." He glances around the room, reaches up a long arm to a high shelf behind them, and drags down a dusty green box. "_Now_ we're talking!" He retrieves the marginally cleaner of the sweatsocks – "The little bag's missing" – and starts shaking tiles into it, stopping a couple of times to pull out the blanks. "We're gonna need extra 'k's …" He reaches for the Sharpie in Casey's pen pot.

Casey's frowning. "Just one, surely?"

Dan looks up and sighs. "Casey. Casey, Casey. What's that SAT verbal your mom's so proud of?"

Casey's evidently been running vocabulary lists in his head. "Oh!" he says, realising. Then, "Those aren't SAT words, you know, Danny."

"_Vas te faire foutre_," Dan says, very sweetly. Casey blinks, then smiles.

"Maybe later. So, we're playing foreign words after all …?"

*

  
A window pops up in the corner of Kim's screen, and she immediately closes down Photoshop, checks her recipient list one final time, and hits 'send', careful to avoid 'send all'. Elliott had made that mistake once with his own holiday photos, and there are still those on the staff who claim their eyesight will never be the same again.

She calls out, "The games have started!" and, as her voice echoes down the hallway, the basketball's abandoned, books and newspapers dropped, internet browsers pointed at officially-sanctioned sites, chatter and conversation fades away. A moment later there's nothing to be seen but a group of highly motivated, professional people, working conscientiously and dedicatedly to produce the best damn sports show in the history of television, or at least since the one they put on last night.

You can always tell when it's Tuesday.

***


End file.
